


embrasse moi

by mothmaiden



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Lust at First Sight, Mentions of Death, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Unprotected Sex, attempt at having quiet sex, attempt being the key word here, they're slightly awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmaiden/pseuds/mothmaiden
Summary: It's been so long.(She touches him and it's like he's never done this before.)
Relationships: Will Schofield/Lauri, William Schofield/Lauri
Comments: 26
Kudos: 78





	embrasse moi

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by my own thirst. Also, please note I ignore the fact that this could end in babymaking. Apologies for any incorrect French! Enjoy!

The wound pulsed. Sparks of light danced behind his eyes with each low thrum. He reached around to touch it, his fingers coming away dampened and darkened by his own blood. He wasn’t sure if the injury itself was still bleeding, or if it was simply that it’d left a sticky mess in the back of his hair. Somehow, though, the pain itself was strange – distant. It felt separate from him, something occurring peripherally. He guessed that perhaps it had something to do with the length of time he’d had it, or the adrenaline that had been coursing through him. He was calmer now, his heart slowing back to its normal rhythm, its low drumming.  
  
“D’accord?” She asked, her dark brow furrowing. She must’ve seen him wince or flinch, and now she thoughtfully touched his head again. Her fingers were gentle. And in spite of the circumstances, in spite of his special commission and all of the terrible images still lingering in his mind – he was keenly aware of the fact that she was a woman. That her hands were so much smaller than his, her fingertips free of callouses, that her hair would be so long if it were unbound.  
  
“Yes,” he said, nodding to ensure that she understood. He couldn’t stop himself from cringing slightly, though, as her hand made contact with the wound. She apologized, which he understood vaguely, but he shook his head. “It’s all right.”  
  
The baby was fast asleep. He was sitting on her makeshift bed, the warm, glowing light lulling him into a state of semi-drowsiness. How easy it would be, to simply stretch out here – it needn’t even be on the bed; the floor would serve just as fine – and go to sleep. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired, but surely he must’ve been before. Hadn’t he been through worse than this? Hadn’t he?  
  
He saw Tom’s face. His skin gone pale, his lips turning a telling shade of purplish-blue. His hand, clutching the photograph. The promise he’d made to find Joseph, to write to his poor mother.  
  
It was curiously quiet. Just the two of them, sitting there silently, their eyes never quite meeting. They might as well have been in someone’s house, the only people left alive in the universe. He found the thought oddly comforting. He wished that he could look out and see nothing, no one. That he would discover that, overnight, everyone else had vanished.  
  
He needed to leave.  
  
For the first time, he allowed his gaze to roam over her face. She had blue eyes, though they reflected darkly in the half-light. Her hair was dark, thick-looking, her lips ever so slightly full – just enough to suggest sensuality. Slowly, her eyes drifted upwards to meet his. The tip of her tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip, and he couldn’t stop or control the thrill that raced low in his stomach.  
  
Perhaps she saw something in his face, some unconcealed lust, for she repeated the action. This time, though, she let it linger, allowed him to take in every second of her movement. How long had it been since he’d been this close to a woman? Since he’d touched one, _been_ touched by one? He envisioned himself, as if he were a passive witness, kissing her, rucking up her dress, pushing himself between her thighs. How warm she’d be. Hot and so, so soft – like only women could be – and he’d do it right, he’d take his time, touch her and get her ready for him.  
  
Jolted by the course of his thoughts, he smiled weakly at her, before letting out a sigh. He was ashamed of the way he was thinking of her. She’d done nothing but show him kindness, presumably without any errant imaginings of her own, and he was acting like a cad. He tried to remind himself that he hadn’t actually _done_ anything, but it felt wrong. “What’s your name?” He asked, keeping his voice soft, low.  
  
Quickly, afraid she wasn’t comprehending, he pointed to himself. “William,” he said, clearing his throat. “Will.”  
  
“Will.” He liked the sound of his name in her mouth. Her accent transformed it into something elegant, drawn out, not the kind of name you’d expect to find on an English country boy. He smiled, sheepishly, nodding. “Lauri,” she said, pointing to her chest.  
  
He wished he’d learned more French. He wished that he had some more meaningful way to communicate to her, though these days speaking aloud seemed the least intimate way to get to know someone. She smiled, saying his name a second time, as if she were marveling at it. He wondered if it was strange to her, exotic in its Englishness. “Just you?” She said, and then, as if her inability to speak in his language frustrated her, she groaned.  
  
He laughed. How strange it felt, to be laughing in the midst of such destruction, such mindless death. She’d asked him that earlier, but he knew it was different this time, that she was trying to question him about another matter. Perhaps she had intuited that he hadn’t been alone, originally. “No,” he said, shaking his head. Tom’s face. He wondered if he’d ever get the image out of his head. “There was someone else.”  
  
A pause. “Mort,” he said. He knew that one. Dead.  
  
She nodded. Clearly she didn’t understand quite what he meant, who he was speaking of, if he was referring to one person or to the whole of his company. But nonetheless she nodded. It was enough, to know that he’d suffered. She surely had, too. He wondered about her parents, if she’d had any siblings, a family of her own.  
  
For a moment, they said nothing. Finally he gave her another flickering smile, rising up onto his knees. “I should go,” he said, not sure if she’d understand exactly what he meant.  
  
Her fingers closed around his wrist. He could have shaken her off, but he only looked at her in confusion, in mute surprise. “Stay,” she said. Her eyelashes fluttered, casting dark crescents on the skin just beneath. “S’il vous plaît.”  
  
His mouth went dry. He chastised himself viciously. It wasn’t as if she were asking for anything. She was, like him, like everyone else, desperate for company. For the comfort of another human being, one who was kind, who wasn’t full of malicious intent. Or was he? Did this count as malicious intent, if he wanted to push her onto her back and touch her and—?  
  
She turned his hand over – his good hand – and, bashfully, stroked her thumb across his open palm. It was mortifying, but his mouth dropped open, as if she’d touched him somewhere else. Somewhere far more intimate.  
  
A breath left him. “Embrasse moi,” she said, taking his hand, placing it gently over her breast. His eyes sought hers, asking, unsure. The material of her dress was thin, her nipple already hardening beneath his palm, although he’d done nothing to her yet. Another thrill traced up his spine, every muscle in his body taut, tense. Aware.  
  
She said it again – but this time, it was a demand. He didn’t know what she meant, but she parted her lips, inviting, and he brought his mouth down to hers. It was frighteningly and intensely erotic, the sight of her slightly below him, with him still on his knees. Insistently she tightened her fingers around his, encouraging him to squeeze her, to grasp.  
  
He parted her lips further with his tongue. God, her mouth was soft, pliant, her tongue hot and wet and wrapping around his. The girls he’d kissed before had never been quite so desperate, so wanton, perhaps afraid that he would think less of them for openly showing their desire. They’d been wet for him, but they’d forced themselves to be quiet. The only sign he’d ever had of their pleasure was watching their faces as they bit back gasps, their eyes as they heated up.  
  
Briefly, he broke away, as difficult as it was. Then, he asked her: “Do you want to?”  
  
It was more instinct, he thought, that helped her to understand what he was asking. She nodded, biting her lip, and said heatedly, “Yes.” She said it again, a third time, ridding him of his jacket. He discarded it carelessly, letting her pull him down on top of her, his heart beginning its relentless pounding once more.  
  
She spread her legs at the hip. He yanked her hair out of its restraints – too far gone to even wonder if he’d been too rough, if he’d hurt her – and knotted his fingers in it, in the silk of it, overwhelmed by how soft she was. Only w omen were like that, impossibly and miraculously soft. He could never get enough of touching them, of feeling that velvety skin.  
  
He stopped. Just for a second, to look at her. He tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear, their breath mingling. She looked confused, about to inquire as to why he’d paused, and he blurted out, “You’re pretty.”  
  
A flush crept up his neck. It spread not only across his cheeks, but colored his ears, and he knew that beneath his uniform his chest would be blushed pink. A faint smiled drifted onto her face, less, he thought, because she understood what he’d just said, but more because she was charmed by his embarrassment. “Lauri,” he said, for lack of anything else.  
  
A flicker of lust darkened her eyes. He pressed his lips to hers once more, their noses bumping as they made an attempt to learn each other’s pace. Reaching down between them, he made an effort to unfasten the front of his trousers, but he was shaking so badly it rendered him incapable. The tremble was violent, and feeling it, she put her hand over his.  
  
In his face, she saw his embarrassment. That he was humiliated, acting like it was his first time. She kissed him, softly, sucking his bottom lip between hers, forcing all other thoughts from his mind. Expertly she undid the buttons, slipping her hand inside, and when her fingers curled around the length of him, he nearly collapsed on top of her.  
  
A low groan escaped his throat. And, fuck, he couldn’t keep himself from thrusting into the palm of her hand, his breath shallow, labored. The sensation of her lips moving across his throat, licking his Adam’s apple, skimming her teeth over that ultrasensitive flesh, was unbelievable in its intensity.  
  
“Stop,” he said, swallowing thickly. Immediately she ceased to move her hand, loosening her grip, her eyes searching his. “Not yet,” he said, though he read in her frown that she was unsure of what he was trying to tell her.  
  
He was hard, achingly hard. They’d done nothing more than share clumsy kisses and he was ready, so desperate to be inside of her. He would have crawled inside her skin, stayed there, lived there. Even in the fog of pleasure, she was careful not to touch his head, instead gripping him by the nape of his neck.  
  
Almost timidly, he unbuttoned the front of her dress. Her undergarments were just as thin, as worn. He cupped her breast through the graying silk and lace, drawing out a gasp, her throat working silently. He wanted to kiss her there, lick away the sweat pooling in the hollow of her creamy throat. But what he wanted more than that – needed – was to touch her with no fabric separating them.  
  
He made hasty, awkward work of her slip and all of the other items that women wore. It didn’t seem like it was happening fast enough, Christ, he needed her, and if he weren’t so afraid of frightening her or seeming like a beast, he might’ve cut her out of her constraining underclothes. And for all he knew, she possessed no others. Hurry, he told himself, hurry, Will.  
  
After an age, her skin was bared to him. He was like a silly boy again, unable to hold back his appreciative moan at the sight. The skin surrounding her nipples had risen up in gooseflesh, all of the tiny, fuzzy little hairs dusting her skin standing up in awareness of him. They were slightly dark, tantalizingly dark, the nipples themselves pitted so hard it looked painful.  
  
Gently, he took one of them in his mouth. He’d meant to go slow, to circle them first with his thumbs and pluck at them with his fingers, but his desire was heightening, skyrocketing. She was soft and her skin tasted vaguely of perspiration, the smell of her intoxicating, heady in its femininity. He was tense with it, erect to the point of suffering.  
  
“Will,” she said, in a low little gasp. She reached towards him, sliding her hands up and underneath all of his layers of clothing, finding her way to the feverishly hot flesh of his back. He was slick under his clothes, radiating heat, caught up in the thought of how good she’d feel around him. “Will,” she said again, plaintively, more of a whine than anything else. He focused on what he was doing, licking her until she was nearly weeping.  
  
She arched her back when he began to suck. He was a little rougher than he’d intended to be, but she encouraged him, digging her fingernails into the delicious musculature of his back. And when he kissed the underside of the next breast with his teeth, he felt her hips come up off the bed.  
  
“I want you,” he said, unthinking, mouthing her neck, the space below her ear. “I want you.”  
  
Their mouths met. He slid his hand lower, beneath the hem of her dress. Her mouth was slack, her pupils so large and black her eyes might’ve been nothing but those two dark centers. He was shaking again when he moved aside her undergarment, finding the material damp. But then he slipped his middle finger inside of her and it was good, it was so fucking good, she was wetter than he’d thought possible and as hot and welcoming as silk.  
  
Her expressions, her glazed over stare, mesmerized him. He pumped his finger inside of her, slowly, only picking up the speed when she began to thrust herself against his hand. Gingerly he added another, feeling her stretch around him, tight and slick. A small flash of pain crossed her face, and he nearly stopped, but she anticipated his reaction.  
  
Again it was her who kept him from leaving, from halting. She grabbed his hand, telling him without words – telling him in the only way she knew how – to keep going. Oh, and when she took him up to the last knuckle, he could barely stand it. “Fuck,” he said, biting his lip with such force he wouldn’t have been surprised to feel his teeth break the skin.  
  
He ground the heel of his hand firmly against her clit. She was fighting to be quiet, her eyes rolling back, her hips moving in tandem with his punishing rhythm. She keened at the loss when he finally removed his hand – he’d been able to tell from the way she was pulsing, throbbing, around his fingers that she was close to coming. He didn’t want that. Not yet. Not until he was inside of her.  
  
There was tenderness in him as he took her hand, clasped it around him. A shiver wracked through him, through the whole of his body, and he grunted softly into her waiting mouth. Her tongue touched his upper lip, wicking away the beads of perspiration.  
  
He brought his own hand up to his mouth, the scent of her on his fingers going straight to his head. If they’d had more time, if they hadn’t been required to rush through this act of timeless intimacy, he would have wanted to kiss her there. Slip his tongue between the soft lips of her cunt, kiss the place that was wet for him.  
  
The smell of a woman’s arousal was exciting, like nothing he’d ever experienced. Musky, strangely sweet. Earthy. He wasn’t even considering her, not really, when he sucked his fingers into his mouth. But she made strangled noise, and his eyes met hers, and he saw the thrill as it shattered through her.  
  
He went back to what he should’ve been doing. Helping her to guide him inside. First the broad tip of him, messy with his own precome. He had to hold himself back, afraid that if he started thrusting now he’d hurt her. He gritted his teeth, and warmly, tenderly, she kissed his cheek. He didn’t move, even once he buried all the way inside of her. She was unbearably tight, and for a panicked moment he wondered – had she never been with a man before?  
  
There was slight pain in her face. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, her expression one of determined concentration. “Never?” It was a struggle like he’d never known to be enclosed in her warmth, and to keep himself from doing what came naturally. “No others?”  
  
She nodded, but he didn’t know if that meant yes, there had been no others, or yes, she had. “Um,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed as he gently drew her leg up and over his hip. The movement earned him a sharp half-gasp, half-moan. “Oh,” she said, exposing the column of her throat, tossing her head back. He was deeper like this, their hips flush, his bones cushioned in the soft swell of her curves. “One,” she said, cradling her face in the crook of his neck. “One.”  
  
Once before, he assumed. Or one other man. Relief overcame him. She’d need a moment to adjust, then, that was all. He began moving slowly, shallow little thrusts, rewarded by her mewling and her blunt fingernails raking over his back.  
  
Had it always been like this? Had he always been so amazed to watch a woman’s face as she came apart, as she began to meet his thrusts, as she hooked her other leg around him? It’d been such a long time, he didn’t know. But God, he knew that he wanted her to come, that he wanted her to remember this as a moment of inexplicable pleasure.  
  
Her teeth nipped his earlobe, and he was becoming faster, harder, holding onto his self-control by the tips of his fingers. She was speaking in quiet, rapid French, her voice husky, roughened. A loud moan came from her chest, and he glanced up. Fuck. The baby. Shuddering, he put his hand over her mouth, trying to help her to understand that they needed to be as quiet as possible. Flames of desire rose in her eyes. She licked his palm, bit, kissed it again and again.  
  
Heat spiraled in his stomach. He wished that he could be naked against her, feel the damp of her skin, but this would have to be enough, this would have to be it. And it was more than he could’ve asked for, this moment of happiness and mind-numbing pleasure, in her to the hilt.  
  
There were things he hadn’t known. Never had it occurred to him that he might like this, clasping his hand over a woman’s mouth, holding back her soft wanting cries while she bucked up into him, letting some primal, animalistic side of himself surface.  
  
He pressed harder, biting back a moan. Her teeth grazed his skin, and suddenly he removed his hand, pinning hers above her head. He crushed his mouth to hers, knowing they would both be bruised, that when he broke away her pretty mouth would be swollen, red. He was getting close, and he needed her there, needed her to come before he did.  
  
Trailing wet kisses down the side of her neck, he slid his hand between them. She jolted as his fingers brushed across her clit, like an electric shock had gone through her. She was so hot, God, he could barely hold himself together now, and she clenched around him, a fist around him –  
  
She came, so forcefully that her nails drew blood. The pain was – good, it intensified everything else, the throbbing of his cock and the tightening in his abdomen that signified how close he was. He went to pull out, but she wrapped her legs more tightly around his hips, whispering, “Stay. Stay.” And, fuck, he couldn’t stop. She kissed his face, warmly, affectionately, as he came. He collapsed onto her, holding himself up awkwardly by his elbows, making an effort even through his searing pleasure not to crush her.  
  
In any other circumstance, he might have been embarrassed by his soft moaning, the way he was almost whimpering – sobbing – into the crook of her neck. Her tenderness, though, left no room for such feelings. She stroked the back of his neck, whispering into his ear, licking away the tear that had leaked from the corner of his eye.  
  
It was a moment before he drew out. He let out a soft gasp as he did so, so sensitive it brought fresh tears to his eyes. She shifted slightly, her mouth open in a little O. He knew, instinctively, what she was feeling. The thought that he’d come inside of her, that she was full of him…he shivered. He hadn’t known how arousing it would be. How titillating.  
  
Lauri put her hand between her legs. He watched in silent fascination as she touched her cunt, biting her bottom lip. He grabbed her wrist, overcome by some urge he didn’t understand, and licked the wet tips of her fingers.  
  
Mostly he tasted her. There was a hint of his salt, too, faintly. Her eyes were impossibly dark, veiled by thick lashes. He rose up, kissed her, wondering if she could taste herself on his mouth. “I have to leave,” he said. He swallowed back the lump in his throat.  
  
She seemed to understand. She nodded, smiling wonderingly up at his face. “Adieu.” She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers.  
  
He shoved back his emotion. “Adieu,” he said.  
  
She kissed him once more, on the corner of his mouth. Her parting gift. 


End file.
